


i can be the motor (you'll be the gasoline)

by kiwikero



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Famous Harry, Fate, Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, Like super light, Los Angeles, M/M, Motorcycles, Non-Famous Louis, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 17:06:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4229904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwikero/pseuds/kiwikero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is a British pop star living in LA. While trying to escape his reality of publicity stunts and record sales, his Harley breaks down. Stranded in the mountains, Harry has no choice but to call for help. </p><p>And, somehow, a fit tow truck driver with the ocean in his eyes might end up fixing more than just Harry's bike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i can be the motor (you'll be the gasoline)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [delightfulship](https://archiveofourown.org/users/delightfulship/gifts).



>   
> 
> 
> Hello! This is my first time pinch hitting, so I hope I did okay! delightfulship, all of your prompts were so intriguing, but this is the only one I felt I could do justice in such a short amount of time! I hope you like it.
> 
> Thanks to my amazing beta, Sarah, for doing a wonderful job as always. <3 I know absolutely nothing about LA or motorcycles. ^^;
> 
> The title for this fic comes from "Dirty King" by the Cliks.

The warm California air whips Harry’s shirt around him as he leans into a curve, his body tilting like an extension of the motorbike beneath him. It’s a clear April evening in Los Angeles, and right now the only thing on Harry’s mind is getting away from his life for a little while.

Hot orange and bright overhead, the sun gradually sinks toward the horizon, leaving streaks of pink in its wake. The lengthening shadows and golden light washing over the road give the impression of driving straight into a postcard. Wish you were here.

 _Wish I was anywhere but here,_ Harry thinks bitterly, putting on his turn signal and taking the exit for State Route 2, better known as Angeles Crest Highway. It’s one of Harry’s favourite roads to travel, especially when he needs an escape. The highway winds through the Angeles National Forest, trees so thick in spots it’s almost easy to forget the bustling metropolis just beyond them. As the road climbs higher into the San Gabriel Mountains, the forest gives way to stunning views of the Los Angeles basin below. Sometimes the road seems to cut straight through the mountains themselves, rock reaching high enough on either side of the highway to make a peaceful passageway.

It’s Harry’s favourite road in the world, hands down, and he can feel the tension slipping from his body as his Harley glides smoothly along the familiar drive. Being a two lane road, there are significantly fewer vehicles to worry about, and sometimes miles slip away without him ever seeing another traveler. It’s like that today, the route blissfully empty, the stuttering growl of Harry’s motorbike the only sound other than the birds and breeze.

The thing is, it isn’t always easy to get away when you’re a celebrity. Sure, in the US, Harry isn’t extremely well-known, but he does have a fanbase here and is recognised fairly often. If his PR team gets their way, he’s about to get spotted far more often. He grips the handles of his bike even tighter, anxiety pinching at his chest at the thought that rides like these may not be possible in a few short months.

Today had started out like any other. Harry’d gone to a yoga class, Skyped with his older sister, Gemma, and met his friend Jeff for lunch at this new Thai place in Pasadena. All in all, it was quite an enjoyable afternoon, and he’d strolled into his 3 PM meeting with his management team with a spring in his step and a smile on his face.

By 3:27 PM, the smile was gone and he found himself staring around the table incredulously. “You want me to _what?”_

Five men and one lady, all in suits, stared right back at him. Ian, a slick, middle-aged man from Harry’s PR team, leaned across the polished mahogany of the table, fingers steepled. “We need to boost your public image, Harry. It’s not uncommon for high profile celebs to help each other out.”

“Besides,” chimed in Vince, his manager, “this could be the push you need to crack the American market. Your sales are good, but this could make them great.”

The lone woman in the room, a publicist named Shirley, nodded along emphatically. “It would also put to rest some of the more colourful rumours,” she said, in a tone that made it clear how fond she was of said rumours.

Harry scoffed, leaning back in the padded chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “You mean the ones about me being gay and shagging my friend Jeff? Those aren’t exactly rumours,” he said flippantly, taking pleasure in the way he could feel the blood pressure around the table rising. He wasn’t being completely honest; yes, he was gay, but the most intimate moment he had shared with Jeff Azoff was the time Harry picked him up after a colonoscopy. His team didn’t need to know that, though, and he rather enjoyed making their lives a bit more difficult.

“Yes, well,” Vince said, looking like he had a foul taste in his mouth, “a gay British pop star certainly isn’t going to top the American charts anytime soon.”

Barely holding back a comment about how he’s more of a bottom anyway, Harry let his shoulders sag. They’re right, is the shitty part, and they’ve all been in the business a lot longer than he has. When he won the X Factor at the age of sixteen, he had no idea _this_ is what his life would look like four years down the road. He’s lucky, he isn’t doubting that, and his success in Europe is enough to allow him to live comfortably with very little effort on his part. He’d moved to LA last summer, though, hoping to finally get recognition in the US. He had always dreamt of walking the red carpet, attending awards shows, rubbing elbows with stars like Rihanna and Justin Timberlake. He never, however, anticipated this.

“What would I have to do?” Harry asked with a resigned sigh, slouching in his seat as if he might disappear into it entirely.

One of the men he hadn’t recognised slid over a contract as thick as his salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “You go on a few dates, get papped a few times, act like you like each other in public. At the end of it, you’ll have gotten a ludicrous amount of press and she’ll have fodder for several more songs about heartbreak.” The man grinned, his thin lips all but disappearing around coffee-stained teeth. “Everybody wins.”

 _This doesn’t feel like winning,_ Harry thought glumly, grabbing for the contract. His eyes skimmed over line after line of legal jargon, his name sprinkled over the page along with that of his proposed ‘girlfriend.’ Harry tucked the document into his bag without flipping past the first page; he’d long since learned not to sign anything without his lawyer going over it with a fine-toothed comb. Hell, had he realised what the meeting was going to be about, Harry would have brought him along.

“Let me think it over, yeah?” Harry said, zipping his bag closed and pushing back from the table.

Ian’s brow furrowed, clearly not expecting Harry to do anything but sign on the dotted line. “Harry, her team is waiting on your response. If you wait too long, they might rescind their offer entirely.” There was a warning in his voice that told Harry he had better not let that happen.

Shouldering his bag, Harry stood up and reached for the door of the conference room. “Overnight. You can let me think it about it overnight,” he said flatly, beyond asking for permission at that point. He glanced around the room at the stony faces, fixing a sardonic smile on his own. “Pleasure, as always. If you’ll excuse me,” he said, letting himself out of the room before anyone could stop him.

His mind had raced the entire way out of the building, heartbeat as loud as his footsteps on the gleaming flooring. He chewed at his bottom lip as he called for his driver, the air around him heavy and suffocating. He needed to escape, to get away, to not have to worry about being Harry Styles the brand for a little while.

And he definitely, _definitely_ didn’t need to think about the fact that this time next week, Harry might just be Taylor Swift’s newest boyfriend.

***

Harry tries to tell himself it’s the wind rushing past his face that has his eyes streaming, but he knows better. He’s just so damn _frustrated._ He wants to make it on his own, without being hailed as a lothario or player or dating Taylor fucking Swift. Is it so hard to believe that people could possibly like him for who he is? Harry Styles, the clumsy, strange, friendly kid from Holmes Chapel, not Harry Styles, the well-dressed superstar with a new tabloid article every day.

He’s on the verge of a breakdown, is what’s happening, and Angeles Crest Highway isn’t numbing the pain like it used to. Maybe he’s built up a tolerance to it; he needs to move on to stronger, harder roads.

That strange line of thought cuts out completely about the same time his engine does, the lights blinking out as the bike loses power. “Shit,” he swears, the curse lost on the wind, as he pulls in the clutch and coasts to a stop along the side of the road. Luckily he’s at one of the places with a generous shoulder, few and far between along the mountain path.

Once he’s stopped, Harry tries to start it back up again, but the engine doesn’t even try to turn over. He jerks off his helmet and rakes a hand through his curls in frustration before digging into the pocket of his skinny jeans to find his mobile. There’s hardly any service, the trees and peaks lining the road blocking the signal. Putting down the kickstand, Harry climbs off his motorbike and walks up the highway, hoping to get enough service to call for help.

Luckily he’s close enough to his bike that he can keep an eye on it when his mobile finally allows him to dial out. It rings once, twice, three times, before Jeff picks up with a casual “‘Sup?”

“Hey, mate,” Harry says, kicking at the gravel of the shoulder, the toes of his chelsea boots scattering the rocks. “I’m sort of stranded in the mountains.”

Whatever Harry is expecting, it certainly isn’t the burst of laughter that comes braying through the speaker. “Yeah, and what do you want me to do about it?” He can just picture the face Jeff is making, laughing so hard at the idea of Harry sitting forlornly by the side of the road that his eyes are watering.

“Can you just call for help for me, please?” Harry begs, not even bothering to hide the desperation in his voice. He may not be incredibly well known in America, but it’s only a matter of time before someone recognises him. Or he gets eaten by a bear. They have those in California, don’t they? Wolves, perhaps.

“You can’t Google a damn towing company?”

“I barely have enough of a signal to call you, you tosser,” Harry says, frowning even though Jeff can’t see his face. “Look, I’m desperate. Please just call someone.”

There’s a loud sigh and some shuffling on the other end of the line. “All right, all right. I know a little shop in Burbank, they’re really professional when it comes to dealing with the rich and famous. And British wannabes too, I suppose,” Jeff teases.

Harry chuckles at that. “Heyyy,” he chides. “But seriously, thank you. I’m about 25 miles or so from I-210.” He’s been on the road for about 45 minutes, meaning he’s in for a bit of a wait. The one downside of being stranded in a National Forest—there aren’t exactly many businesses nearby.

“Sure thing. They’ll give you a ride back to town, as well. Let me know when you make it home okay,” Jeff says, hanging up after Harry thanks him one more time.

After that, there’s nothing Harry can do except wander back down the road to his bike and wait.

And wait.

And fucking _wait._

Like, he knew it would be awhile since he was so far up the rural highway. He can’t get a good enough signal to connect to the internet from his mobile, and his texts are taking ages to send (if they send at all), so he passes the time by just… trying not to think. He counts the cars that whiz past, headlights bright against the dimming sky. The ski resorts have all closed for the season, significantly reducing the amount of traffic, and the lone restaurant along the route (a biker bar called Newcomb’s Ranch) is closed on Tuesdays. Still, Harry sits behind his cooling Harley, trying to stay out of sight from the passing vehicles. He’s not afraid, exactly, but he’s also not keen on finding out what will happen if the wrong person recognises him alone in the California wilderness.

It’s been an hour since his call to Jeff. Harry’s thinking of home and his mum and the pub he used to frequent with his friends when a pair of headlights come into view around the bend. The white truck they’re attached to slows, gravel crunching underneath its large tires as it pulls off onto the shoulder. There’s a moment when Harry tenses up, but the large lettering on the side of the truck says ‘Sunset Towing’ and the man who leaps out of the driver’s side door has a smile powerful enough he could recharge Harry’s bike just by looking at it. The man glances around, not spotting Harry at first, then raises his eyebrows when Harry climbs to his feet from behind the motorbike.

“‘Ello!” Harry calls, offering a shy wave.

The stranger’s smile returns in full force, almost smug on his chiseled face. There’s a dusting of scruff coating his jawline, and as he draws closer Harry can tell that the man’s eyes are as blue as the Pacific and just as deep. He’s… quite gorgeous, actually. His oceanic eyes sweep over Harry from head to toe before passing over to his motorbike, showing no sign of recognising Harry. “You must be Herschel, then?”

Harry’s jaw drops as soon as the man speaks. “You’re British?” he gasps, the lilting accent like music to Harry’s ears. Also, _Herschel?_ He makes a mental note to kick Jeff later for assigning him the least sexy fake name of all time.

The man quirks a rounded eyebrow, considering Harry before he speaks. Harry notices his shirt for the first time, _TOMMO_ embroidered in blue letters beneath the company logo. “Was last time I checked,” Tommo replies cheekily. “As are you. Fancy that.” Even in the dying light of the sun, Harry can see that the man’s skin is golden with a tan, the denim of his work shirt pale in contrast.

Barely able to contain his elation at meeting a fellow Brit here, of all places, Harry stays silent as he watches Tommo cross over to his bike and look it over, running a hand that looks too delicate for mechanical work along the shining black fender. “Custom Sportster, lovely,” he admires, fingers teasing at the leather of the seat. “So, what seems to be the problem, then? Run out of petrol?”

Harry snorts. He may not be an expert on motorcycles, but he’s at least intelligent enough to make sure he has enough fuel before a ride. “As if. Just filled up this afternoon.” He watches Tommo unscrew the gas cap anyway, smirking when the tank is just as full as he said it was. “No, it just died on me. Like, the lights went out and the engine stalled, and now I can’t get it started.”

Tommo ponders that, putting up the kickstand and trying to start it for himself. There’s nothing, not even a click from the ignition, and the lights remain cold and dark. “Looks like you’ve got no power, mate,” Tommo says, clucking his tongue as he puts the kickstand back down. He checks a few more things, crouching down to clamp something to the battery and checking the readout on a yellow gadget that vaguely resembles a calculator. “You’re not charging,” he says as he unclamps the device, wrapping the cord around his hand as he stands. “Most likely something wrong with your rectifier, but I won’t know for sure until I can take a closer look.”

Harry has no idea what the hell a rectifier is. “Oh,” he says, not wanting this attractive stranger to think he’s a complete idiot. “All right, then.”

The man laughs, tongue pressed up behind his bottom teeth. “You have no idea what a rectifier is, do you?”

“Not a clue.”

Tommo shakes his head, caramel brown fringe brushing over his forehead. “They’ll let anybody ride a bike these days, won’t they?” he says, sounding more amused than exasperated. Instead of waiting for a reply, he heads back over to his truck and begins lowering the ramp.

Feeling embarrassed and a little useless, Harry watches the mechanic work curiously. “Do you ride?” he asks, trying not to focus on the way Tommo deftly lays out the various straps he’ll need to secure Harry’s bike.

Tommo laughs again, and Harry thinks he could get used to making this beautiful man laugh. “No, I just work on them. I had an uncle get really injured in a motorbike accident, so I promised me mum I’d never put anything that dangerous between my legs.” He says it so nonchalantly, and Harry hopes that he’s successful in his attempt to cover his sharp intake of breath with a fake cough. The thought of _anything_ between Tommo’s legs is something he doesn’t dare imagine.

Bombarded with mental images of the stunning man, thighs spread, work shirt unbuttoned to reveal what promises to be a solid chest underneath, Harry can feel a familiar heat in his belly that has nothing to do with the California sun. “Oh,” he says, after far too long a pause.

Either not noticing how strange Harry is acting or being too polite to comment on it, Tommo retrieves the bike from alongside the road and walks it over to the ramp. Once it’s in position, he makes quick work of the ratchet straps, winding them through the motorbike’s frame and carefully securing them to the metal ramp. “So what brings you LA, Hersch?” Tommo asks, eyes briefly flicking to Harry before returning to his work.

“Erm. Moved here for work. Land of Opportunity and all that,” Harry lies smoothly, his gaze trained safely on his bike. It makes him nervous, thinking about his baby just sitting in the back of a truck all the way back down the curvy mountain road. He wants to trust Tommo, but it’s taking a lot of restraint not to go over and check the tautness of the straps himself. Instead, he settles for hovering nearby, watching the man’s hands adjust and tighten and tug. “What about you, Tommo?”

Tommo drops one strap and moves on to the next one, the bright red material popping against the black finish of his bike. “Uni, and it’s Louis, actually. I’m still in school, but I work part time as a mechanic to pay the bills.” He moves around to the other side of the ramp. “Me dad fucked off when I was really young, and I took it upon myself to become the man of the house. Turns out I’m pretty handy with tools,” Tommo—er, _Louis_ explains.

Harry feels a brief pang of guilt about using his own fake name, but then he remembers why it’s a necessity. He must say, he’s rather surprised that Louis hasn’t cottoned on to who he is, being a fellow Brit. He’s curious, and he’d really like to know more, but he’s also worried about distracting Louis while he’s working on loading his Harley. “Make sure you get it really tight, yeah?” he says, nerves showing in his voice.

The man doesn’t say anything for a moment, and Harry worries he’s offended him when all of a sudden Louis is on his feet and right up in Harry’s space, chin raised so that he’s looking Harry straight in the eye. “Trust me, I know what I’m doing,” he murmurs almost suggestively. “It’s just tight enough.”

No, not almost.

 _Is he flirting with me?_ Harry wonders, hoping the darkening sky hides the flush rising in his cheeks. “I– I trust you,” he manages, feeling hot under the piercing blue gaze.

Louis stays close for a moment, considering. Then, with a smirk and a gentle brush of his fingers down Harry’s arm, he turns his attention back to the bike and Harry allows himself to breathe.

They make idle chit chat after that, sharing stories about where they hail from and what they miss about home. Louis regales Harry with the story of the time he towed Jay Leno’s motorcycle, and Harry tells Louis about the time he accidentally ended up doing drunk karaoke with Ed Sheeran (he leaves out the part where it was after an awards show they both attended, and that he and Ed are actually really good mates).

Harry might be imagining it, but the entire time he feels like Louis is looking him over. Maybe it’s the way the shorter man licks his lips, or how he sticks out his bum when he bends over to check the straps one last time. In any case, Harry’s palms are sweaty and his mouth is dry and he isn’t quite sure he can handle sitting in the cab of a pickup next to this man for the 45 minute drive back to town.

Eventually the bike is secure, and Louis raises the ramp back to its place in the bed of the truck. Harry watches the machinery work with fascination, the way it glides smoothly off the ground. Louis was right; the bike doesn’t so much as wobble. “Told you,” Louis says smugly, taking Harry’s helmet and stowing it safely in the back floorboard of the extended cab truck. He’s good at what he does, and he _knows_ it.

Harry finds that inexplicably hot.

“Well?” Louis says expectantly, and Harry realises he’s been speaking, the passenger door of the truck propped open so that Harry can climb in. “Where am I taking you?”

Either Louis doesn’t realise that every sentence out of his mouth is a double entendre, or he doesn’t care because he’s a fucking tease.

 _You could take me right here, if you wanted,_ Harry thinks, striding over to the open door. It isn’t until he notices the peculiar look on Louis’ face that it hits him: “I said that out loud, didn’t I?” he asks nervously.

Louis doesn’t respond, just crowds Harry up against the side of the truck, his smaller frame pressed into Harry’s. Louis has to stand on his toes to position his mouth next to Harry’s ear, his breaths like licks of heat as he whispers, “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

The man’s eyes are hooded as he pulls far enough away to meet Harry’s gaze. Harry bites his lip, suddenly overcome with the desire to take an entirely different kind of ride. “What if I did mean it?” Harry asks. He aims for coy but it comes out trepidatious; it’s enough, however, to have Louis throwing open the back door with a groan and bodily lifting Harry into the back of the cab.

Harry gasps when his back hits the seat, shuffling in as far as he can go until his head bumps against the opposite door. Louis is on top of him in an instant, mouth latching on to every bare inch of Harry’s skin. They’re both sweating, clothes clinging to their bodies, as they grind against each other in the backseat like a pair of horny teenagers.

The sharp points of Louis’ incisors are nipping at the pulse point beneath Harry’s ear when he can’t stand it any longer. “Kiss me, please, fuck,” he pants, hands fisting in the denim shirt.

Louis pulls back from the mark that’s surely blooming on the pale skin of Harry’s throat. “One first, then the other, hmm?” He says, his voice a breathy rasp. He surges forward, covering Harry’s lips with his own before the taller boy has a chance to even think about what Louis is implying.

The kiss turns filthy in an instant, Harry opening beneath Louis’ insistent tongue, his hands sliding down to grasp at the ample swell of Louis’ arse. That has Louis rocking back into the touch, breaking the kiss for the briefest of seconds with a gasp before he dives back in.

There’s not much room to move in the cramped backseat, but they still manage to slide against each other, grinding their growing erections against each other’s thighs. Louis unbuttons Harry’s shirt just as nimbly as he’d fastened the ratchet straps, and it makes Harry shudder to think what else those fingers might be capable of.

When Louis reaches up to thread his fingers through Harry’s mess of brown curls and _yanks,_ Harry can’t resist letting out a low groan. Louis stops moving, and Harry’s worried he’s weirded the other man out when suddenly Louis yanks again. “You like that, don’t you?” Louis murmurs as Harry’s eyes flutter closed and he whines an affirmation. Seeming pleased, the mechanic sits up, straddling Harry on the seat, and sliding down his body.

“Where are you going?” Harry asks, and god, he sounds wrecked already. Louis quickly undoes Harry’s belt and starts working at the button of his skin-tight jeans.

The man’s voice is somehow steady as he tugs down the zip, a layer of thin black fabric the only thing separating him from Harry’s dick, and says: “I’m going to suck your cock, if that’s quite all right, and then I’m going to fuck you.”

Harry tries to say ‘please’ but it comes out as ‘hrng,’ but that’s all the permission Louis needs to tug down Harry’s jeans and pants, freeing his cock. Louis hums appreciatively as he reaches out and takes hold, the calluses of his hand rough in just the right way against Harry’s sensitive skin. Harry barely has time to savour the feeling of someone other than himself touching his dick for the first time in ages before Louis swoops down, drenching him in a wet heat that has his back arching off the bench seat.

 _“Fuck,_ Louis,” Harry cries, grabbing a fistful of Louis’ hair and doing his best not to shove his cock further down the man’s throat. Louis just groans around him at the tug, clearly sharing Harry’s preference for a bit of hair-pulling. As he bobs up and down Harry’s length, pale lips on flushed skin, Harry notices for the first time how obscenely long Louis’ eyelashes are and how lovely they look fluttering against the prominent ridges of his cheekbones.

When he feels himself hit the back of Louis’ throat, the muscles working desperately to swallow him down farther, Harry can’t take it any longer. He wraps one hand around the base of his cock to keep from coming and gently pushes Louis off with the other. The confusion on Louis’ face is quickly replaced with a grin when Harry explains, “If you want to fuck me, you’d better get a move on.” As nice as it would be to come down Louis’ throat, or across the sharp lines of his face, the thought of having the mechanic inside him is far too intriguing to pass up.

Louis nudges Harry’s thighs apart, settling on his knees between them on the narrow seat. One of Harry’s feet is in the floor, and Louis hitches the other over his shoulder to make more room. It feels strange, being exposed like this while Louis is still completely clothed, but he’s certainly not complaining as Louis starts working him open with a spit-slicked finger. He’s never done this in a vehicle before, certainly not with a complete stranger, and it’s far more exciting than he thought possible. Each time the cab is illuminated with the glow of passing headlights, he feels a rush of adrenaline that seems to go straight to his groin. Louis feels it too, if the way his eyes are shining is any indication.

The finger in his arse is joined by another, and another, the burn making Harry nearly beg for Louis’ cock. He must let out a whimper, because Louis coos “soon, love, soon,” before doing this twisty thing with his fingers that has Harry forgetting his own name.

“Now, please, fuck me _now,”_ Harry whines, pushing back against Louis’ hand and taking the fingers as deep as they’ll go.

“Shit, Hersch,” Louis swears, pulling his fingers free.

The use of his false name snaps Harry out of the moment. It feels wrong, somehow, to allow Louis to think he’s someone else. He should tell the truth; Louis was going to fuck him anyway, what could be the harm? It’s not like he won’t come across a picture of Harry sooner or later, especially if this Taylor stunt plays out.

But as Louis quickly undoes his jeans just enough to pull out his dick, swollen and leaking in a way that has Harry dying for a taste, Harry’s noble thoughts go right out the window. Louis reaches behind himself and plucks his wallet from his back pocket, extracting a condom and a tiny sachet of lube.

“Do this often?” Harry teases breathlessly as he watches Louis roll on the condom and slick himself up. Louis’ hips jerk forward to meet his hand, clearly just as desperate for this as Harry is.

“What?” Louis asks, eyebrows furrowed. Harry nods at the condom, and Louis laughs. “You mean fuck clients in my backseat? Never.” His eyes are bright as he adds, “Think I’m in the wrong industry for that. I just like to be prepared, that’s all.”

That sends a whole new wave of shivers through Harry’s body, the idea that he’s the first person that Louis’ done this with, that he’s not just another in a long line of sordid hookups on the company dime. He doesn’t even know why it matters so much, but it does, and he very much hopes that he can find a way for it to happen again.

Well, maybe not the truck part. Or the fucking-on-the-side-of-the-road part. But the sex part, definitely.

Louis wastes no time lining up and pushing in, Harry’s body taking each inch like he was made for it. Louis gasps once he’s buried to the hilt, Harry squirming on the seat beneath him in hopes of getting Louis to _“fucking move already!”_

So he does. Both men moan shamelessly at the friction, Louis pulling out just enough to slam right back in. It’s messy and uncoordinated, Harry’s neck bent against the door and Louis throwing his head back and banging it against the roof, but damn if it isn’t the hottest sex of Harry’s life. When Louis folds himself over the top of him and begins to thrust in earnest, Harry knows he isn’t going to last much longer. The open fly of Louis’ jeans bites into Harry’s arse with each slam of Louis’ hips, and the added sting has him keening into Louis’ panting mouth.

The glow from another set of headlights sweeps through the cab, followed by the sound of a car slowing down. Harry must tense up quite a bit, because the next thing he knows the rhythm of Louis’ hips falters as he comes into the condom, turning his head to bite at his own bicep to try and keep quiet in case someone is outside.

The moment passes, though, the car apparently having just slowed down to make the turn and cruising harmlessly by. It’s too quiet, suddenly, the air in the cab thick with sex and sweat and the thunder of two wildly beating hearts.

Harry’s just about to reach for his own cock when Louis, still buried inside him, bats his hand away and takes hold of it himself. There’s enough precome leaking from the tip that it’s plenty slick, Louis’ hand stroking him expertly to the edge.

“Wish we had one of those straps,” Harry gasps as Louis’ free hand finds Harry’s wrist and pins it over his head, thinking fondly of the way Louis had expertly tied down his bike.

Louis' response is a cheeky smile and a particularly nice twist of his hand down Harry's length. “Next time,” he says, and that mental image is enough to have Harry coming with a shout, thick white stripes painting his torso and nearly making it to his chin. Louis immediately drags a thumb through the mess and shoves it past Harry’s lips, the taste of his own spunk surprising and filthy and something he never thought he’d like. He likes it even more a second later, when Louis dips down and licks it right back out of his mouth. He doesn’t stop there, kissing down Harry’s neck and lapping at the come streaking his heaving chest. “God, Harry, taste so fucking good,” he moans.

Once Louis licks him clean, he collapses bonelessly on the man beneath him, not even bothering to pull out. Harry brings his arms down to wrap around Louis’ back, pressing his face into messy hair and inhaling deeply. Louis smells like sex and sweat and motor oil, and Harry finds it absolutely intoxicating. The smaller man nuzzles against his dewy neck, Harry nearly purring as he runs his fingers over Louis’ back. He can still taste Louis on his tongue, mingled with the taste of his own come. Harry’s dick twitches at the memory of that last kiss, the languid drags of a clever tongue against his skin afterwards, the way Louis’ voice broke when he moaned Harry’s name.

And then he freezes.

Louis had moaned Harry’s name. _Harry_.

Harry sucks in a deep breath, catching another tantalising whiff of Louis’ scent. “Um. What did you call me?” He asks, his voice coming out a low rasp.

Louis goes rigid before he sits up slowly, easing himself out of Harry’s body as he scoots as far away as he can get on the seat. “Oops,” he says sheepishly, refusing to meet Harry’s eyes.

Awareness dawns on Harry as he sits up, wincing at the ache in his thighs and bum that he hopes, _knows_ he’ll still be feeling tomorrow. “You knew who I was the whole time, didn’t you.”

It’s a statement, not a question, but Harry says it so gently that it gives Louis the courage to look him in the eye. “Bit hard not to,” he admits, his face flushed from embarrassment or exertion or some combination of the two. “You’re proper famous, back home. Me sisters have a poster of you in their bedroom.”

Harry laughs at that. He isn’t even mad, is the thing, so grateful that Louis treated him like a normal person instead of someone famous. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks, genuinely curious, as he reaches out to rest a hand on Louis’ jiggling leg.

“We’re not supposed to, are we?” Louis replies with a shrug, though he does allow his leg to settle under Harry’s touch. “We see plenty of celebrities at the shop. If they choose to use a fake name, we’re supposed to play along.” He smiles, his teeth bright in the darkness of the truck. “I’ve actually been a fan for a long time,” he says, gnawing at his kiss-bruised bottom lip. “Been following your career since the X Factor.”

“You have?” Harry asks, eyebrows shooting skyward in surprise. It’s hard to picture the fit mechanic cheering on a sixteen-year-old version of himself, singing to the judges and filming silly little filler pieces in the X Factor house.

Louis just nods, fidgeting, like he’s trying to decide how much more to elaborate. “I tried out that year too,” he says eventually. “Didn’t make it past boot camp.” He smiles, this one far sadder than any preceding it. “I met you in the toilets, actually. Told you I knew you’d make it, and you took a photo with me. Guess I was right.” And he doesn’t sound, bitter, or jealous, just… nostalgic. And fond. And Harry desperately wants to kiss him again, but he’s forgotten how to use his mouth.

“Oh my god,” Harry manages finally, coaxing his tongue into forming the words. “I can’t believe that was you.” He remembers the stranger in the bathroom, being so nervous, grateful for the cute boy with the kind words and the blue, blue eyes. “What are the chances of that?” His voice is barely more than a whisper.

“Big believer in fate, me,” Louis whispers right back. Apparently _he_ has no trouble working his mouth, because he closes the distance between them and presses a tender kiss to Harry’s swollen lips.

They snog, and they cuddle, and Louis nearly throws the condom out the window until Harry lectures him about littering. They curl around each other in the claustrophobic space in the backseat, Harry sighing happily. “That was so good,” he says, still reeling from a great orgasm and the fact that he’s known Louis since before he was a star.

“You should see what I’m capable of with more room,” Louis tells him, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, both of them dissolving into a fit of laughter despite it not being terribly funny.

They’re still giggling when Harry chances a glance at his watch. “Shit, mate, we should probably get back before you get in trouble.”

He shows Louis the time, the other man swearing in response. “I am so dead,” he moans, doing up his jeans and clambering over the centre console into the front seat. “Worth it, though,” he adds, eyes drifting to the rearview mirror to watch Harry shimmy into his own jeans.

Once he’s fully dressed, hoping the come beneath his shirt isn’t too obvious, Harry joins Louis in the front seat. “Blame me,” he suggests as Louis starts up the truck and pulls out onto the highway.

“Excuse me?”

Harry shrugs. “Tell them I demanded you not go over twenty miles an hour with my baby in your truck. I’m a pop star, right? Aren’t we supposed to be spoiled brats and have ridiculous demands?”

Louis ponders for moment, his fingers wrapped gently around the steering wheel as he drives them back down the mountains. “That might just work,” he says thoughtfully, daring to look away from the road long enough to shoot Harry a grateful smile. “Thank you, Harry.”

His name, his _real_ name, sounds so good rolling off Louis’ tongue that it makes Harry shiver.

Most of the remainder of the drive passes in silence, Harry leaning his head against the cool glass of the window. His little escape hadn’t quite gone as planned, but thanks to Louis he still managed to take his mind off the meeting, and Taylor Swift, and the awful decision facing him the next day.

When they finally get back to the auto shop, everyone else has gone home for the night. Louis pulls into the garage and locks it behind him, emerging with Harry’s helmet cradled in his arms. “I’ll look at it tomorrow. Should be a quick fix, and I’ll have you back on the road in no time.”

Harry takes the helmet, heart leaping at the electricity that shoots through his veins at the brush of Louis’ hand against his. “I think my bike is in very capable hands,” he replies smoothly, rewarded by a pleased blush tinting Louis’ cheeks.

“Listen, do you need a ride home? I can take you,” Louis offers, nervously rubbing at the back of his neck.

It takes Harry by surprise; Louis has literally been inside him, why is he so timid now? “Are you sure?” He asks, pulling out his mobile. It’s been buzzing like mad since it was able to pick up a decent signal again. “I can call my driver, or my friend Jeff.”

Louis’ face falls and he kicks at the ground. “Oh, of course you have a driver. I wasn’t thinking,” he says, disappointment creeping into his tone.

That’s one of the things that stands out about Louis. In the short time they’ve known each other (well, properly, at least), Louis’ managed to treat him like a normal person _and_ actually forget that he’s a celebrity. It’s refreshing, and wonderful, and Harry doesn’t want to let him go without seeing where this could lead. Louis was there at the very beginning; surely it means something that they found each other again, four years later and half a world away.

“Actually,” he says, deleting the text he’d been writing to Jeff to ask for a ride, “I’d love for you to take me home.” Instead, he sends: _made it back safe! You have impeccable taste in repair shops .xx_

Jeff replies with a series of emojis, including a car, a tongue, and a slightly deranged smiley face.

“Really?” Louis asks, perking up like a kid who’s just been allowed five more minutes of playtime.

“Yeah.” Harry replies, pocketing his mobile. “In fact, if it’s not too forward, I’d love it if you’d come in for a cuppa,” he adds shyly. That’s one of the things he misses most about home; his American friends don’t quite grasp the joys of chatting over a nice cup of tea. Most of them also have no idea how to even _make_ a nice cup of tea.

Louis’ eyes widen at that, a smile tilting up the corners of his lips. “I would really like that, Harry,” he says, his voice gentle and soft. He reaches out to take Harry’s hand, leading him around the building to where the employees park their cars. “In fact, I make an excellent cup of tea, if I do say so myself.”

They climb into Louis’ car, a faded red hatchback with a missing hubcap. It’s not as fancy as Harry’s Range Rover, and there’s no air conditioning (which Louis apologises profusely for), but it’s nice, and Harry absolutely does _not_ check out the size of the backseat.

Instead, he gives Louis directions to his home, his hand sneaking across the seat to cover Louis’ thigh. Louis grins at that, his hair whipping around in the wind pouring in the open windows. They pull up to the gates surrounding Harry’s place, and Harry leans over Louis to type in the gate code. Louis whines at the proximity of their bodies, wriggling in his seat as Harry’s arm drifts too close to his clothed cock. The sound has Harry’s dick slowly filling up, and if it takes him longer than usual to type in the passcode, well. Louis doesn’t have to know that.

The touches turn to teases by the time they make it down the driveway, safe once again from prying eyes behind the thick line of trees ringing Harry’s property. Louis doesn’t gape at how big the house is, or comment on the garage big enough to hold an entire fleet of cars. Instead, he clings tightly to Harry’s hand and hisses in his ear that he’d love a tour, “starting with your bedroom.”

They forget all about making tea.

***

When Harry wakes up the next morning, he notices three things.

First, he’s completely naked, which isn’t all that unusual. The interesting part is the warm, also naked body wrapped around him from behind, snuffling quietly into his ear.

Second, the sun is streaming through the large windows in his bedroom, the length of the shadows draping themselves across the floor indicating that it’s well past noon.

And third, the strange buzzing sound he hasn’t been able to make sense of is actually his mobile, still buried in the pocket of his jeans from the night before. Frowning, he grabs for the jeans and extracts his phone, Vince’s name and number displayed on the screen, along with the voicemail icon and a notification for an ungodly number of missed calls.

 _Oh, fuck,_ he thinks in a panic, frantically swiping across the screen to answer the call. He’d completely forgotten about the meeting to tell them his decision about dating Taylor. He’s been far too engrossed in a handsome stranger who isn’t so much of a stranger, after all.

“Where the hell have you been?” Vince seethes once the call connects. “I was worried sick, and Taylor’s people are waiting!”

Harry frowns into the phone. That’s what this is all about, in the end. They don’t care if Harry’s hurt, or sick, just that he’s kept them waiting. “Sorry, Vince, long night,” he apologises, trying to placate his frazzled manager.

As Vince continues to rant at him through the phone, throwing in words like ‘respect’ and ‘punctuality,’ Harry rolls over as much as he can without disturbing the man plastered to his back. Louis’ mouth is parted slightly in his sleep, somehow even more beautiful by the light of day. His skin is just as golden as Harry thought it would be, and he finds himself aching for Louis to wake up so he can see how those gorgeous blue eyes look as they catch the sunlight.

“Harry? Are you even _listening_ to me?” Vince’s voice rings out from the speaker, annoyed.

He doesn’t know what comes over him, but somewhere between the grating of Vince’s voice and the soft sighs spilling from Louis’ lips in his sleep, he makes a decision. He doesn’t know if it’s smart, or right, but it _feels_ right, and he’s thinking more clearly than he has in years.

“Actually, Vince,” Harry says, cutting the man off mid-sentence, “You can tell Taylor’s people I’m not interested.” He lets a hand drift lazily down Louis’ forearm, causing the man to stir and rewarding him with a glimpse of the baby blues he sort of hopes he wakes up to forever. “I’m currently in bed with a gorgeous mechanic, so Taylor Swift is just going to have to wait her turn.” He’s sure even Louis can hear Vince’s outraged squawks as he pulls his mobile away from his face and ends the call, turning it off and tossing it back onto his jeans. “Morning,” he murmurs, rolling to his side to face Louis properly.

“Morning,” Louis replies sleepily, his voice high and rasping from disuse. His forehead wrinkles in concern. “Everything okay?”

Harry leans in and presses a kiss to his brow, the lines there easing beneath his lips. “Yeah, just saved myself from making a really big mistake,” he explains. Because it’s true: If Harry had never met Louis, he probably would have gone to that meeting, given in, let them tell him what he needed to do to make people like him more. Suddenly that all seems less important. He’s still determined to make it big in America, but he’s going to do it on his terms, without fake relationships and scandals. And, if he gets his way, he’s going to do it with Louis at his side.

“Mmm,” Louis hums in acknowledgement, snuggling closer to Harry and letting his eyes drift closed once more. They lie like that for quite some time, tangled together, chests rising and falling in sync. Harry’s nearly back to sleep himself when he feels Louis jolt beside him, eyes suddenly wide open and staring at Harry with a kind of wonder.

It’s Harry’s turn to be concerned. “Louis? What’s wrong?”

Louis stares at him for a minute, incredulous, before he bursts out laughing. “Did you really just turn down _Taylor fucking Swift_ for me?” he asks between peals of laughter.

It’s infectious, and Harry soon finds himself laughing right along with him. “Yeah, I did.” He leans closer, pecking Louis’ smiling lips with a chaste kiss, morning breath be damned. “I think I’d turn down anyone for you.”

That sobers Louis up, the same look of awe back in place as he regards Harry quietly. “I can’t believe I found you again,” he whispers, almost reverently.

“I can’t believe I ever let you go,” Harry replies, and the smile Louis gives him in return has him feeling sixteen and nervous all over again, yet ready to take on the world at the same time.

***

Harry waits three whole days to ask Louis to be his boyfriend, which, coincidentally, is the amount of time it takes Louis to fix his bike. Harry vehemently denies that the two are related.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I've loved all of your nice comments so far. If you enjoyed this story, there's a rebloggable post [here](http://icanhazzalou.tumblr.com/post/124431798331/i-can-be-the-motor-youll-be-the-gasoline-by). Feel free to come say hello!


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